Invisible
by Alana Core
Summary: "How would you describe me, John? After that escapade? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" Sherlock asked John grinning at him as the train chugged through the tunnel and out into the bright lights of the morning again. John shrugged. "Late."
1. Chapter the First

**Chapter the First**: _In which we meet an invisible boy_

The Holmes family, all in all, was absolutely enormous. There was an astounding amount of aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews. The extent of the family, if you chose to attempt to name them all, was mind-boggling. But if you ask sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes, he'd tell you that none of them truly mattered to him. To him, they simply existed,. They existed as dull people who insisted on pinching his cheeks – and if that wasn't irritating enough – they teased him about his intelligence and often squealed something akin to "Good Merlin, Sherly, you've grown so _much!"_, to which they'd receive the immediate response of, "Please don't call me Sherly, that's a god-awful name," or "Yes, [insert name of relative here], people tend to do that, especially within my age range," drawled out in a bored tone.

Being the only child in the Holmes family who preferred the company of books and empty rooms to people, Sherlock was – more often than not – found by himself. Yet it never bothered him. The older boys and girls (like Mycroft) who doted after the adults, tried to pick on up any helpful hints they could to be just as successful as their predecessors. The younger Holmes' were often found playing on the grounds, playing hide-and-seek or Quidditch or Exploding Snap – perpetually idiotic games, in Sherlock's opinion. But he liked being alone. Alone made him feel safe. Because while everyone else was milling around the manor or around the grounds, Sherlock was found in the shade of the biggest oak tree, hidden behind piles of books or behind stands of sheet music.

From anyone else's point of view, Sherlock Holmes' life couldn't _possibly_ be as boring as he often made it out to be. Being a wizard, born into a wizarding family, he shouldn't have been complaining about how mind-numbing everything was. His family were pure-bloods, as they liked to call themselves, and they prided themselves on their magical lineage. They all consisted of Slytherins, born and bred. If they attended Hogwarts, they were _Slytherins, _for Merlin's sake, and they refused to accept any different. They held high positions in the government, high positions in any place, really.

Interestingly enough, the Holmes' were fine with marrying into other pure-blood families, as long as they weren't the humiliating Hufflepuffs. Hosting lavish parties was a Holmes specialty, parties with masquerades, usually a celebration before the children left for Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, wherever they attended school. Sherlock hated them with a burning passion. He hated socializing, especially with family members who were so normal and ordinary. Family gatherings made him want to blow his brains out with a carefully placed spell.

Anyone who met Sherlock knew straightaway he was different. On the outside, he was normal enough. He was a pale boy with unruly dark hair (which _really_ didn't make him look any less pale) and eyes that seemed like they could hold the universe inside them. They never decided on a color, fading from sea-green to ice-blue to smooth-silver in a matter of days. His eyes were the one feature that made him stand out the most, if you didn't count the high, sharp cheekbones that gave him an air of mystery. He was tall for his age, having surpassed the trademark Holmes growth spurt. He was handsome, in a strange, selective way, and his whole face lit up when he smiled, which was rarely. Sixteen years old, and he was the strangest anomaly that had ever been created in the Holmes family. A beautiful boy with an intelligent mind. The latter is harder to recognize, until he opened his mouth and spoke.

Puberty had done Sherlock well. His voice was nearly a low purr, sounding like a cello, its strings being played with slow, heartbreaking movements of the bow. He talked quickly, intelligent, so low that you could hardly hear him. But the intelligence didn't appear over time. No, when he was a child, he was just as intelligent and sarcastic as he was now.

Ever since he was eleven, the Holmes' had feared that Sherlock would be the only Holmes that attended Hogwarts to not make it into Slytherin House. And, much to Sherlock's relief and their utter dismay, they were right. Yet, being the first Ravenclaw in Holmes history meant the entire family talked about him when they thought he couldn't hear. He heard it all, though, as he stared down at his plate during the last party before school started. Their whispers weren't as quiet as they had originally thought.

"He knows spells that even _I_ don't know, and _I _work at the Ministry! He's only sixteen! It's abnormal, Crystal, I swear."

"How come his eyes change colors? Is he a Metamorphagus?"

"…cold, unfeeling. It's unnatural in a boy that young, Anita. I know he's your son, and this is a personal matter, but is there anything that could have happened in his life to make him so…odd?"

"Put your hand down, it's not nice to point at him, Alice."

"Sherlock, eat your dinner."

The boy in question looked up at this last voice, the voice of his elder brother Mycroft. A person with a high position in the Ministry of Magic, Mycroft was recognized well in the community outside of Sherlock's home. But here, both he and Sherlock were overshadowed by the brilliance and success of the rest of their family. They were invisible.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said quietly, focusing on systematically mashing his peas into his potatoes with his fork. "I ate yesterday."

"Yes, and since yesterday you've holed yourself up in your room, playing your violin nonstop. You're supposed to eat _every day,_ you know." Mycroft frowned at his little brother, watching him play around with his food. "Grow up, Sherlock. You're sixteen. Pushing your food around on your plate doesn't make it look like you've eaten anything."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped back, sighing and setting his fork down. "I just don't feel good. May I be excused?" The last question was directed toward his mother, but she didn't hear him. She never did.

"Just eat the bread, Sher," Mycroft coaxed, pushing the roll of Italian bread at his brother. "You know Mummy gets worried."

They both looked over to Mrs Holmes, who was ignoring the both of them, obviously and painfully. Sherlock's eyes grew stormy, sad, but Mycroft's were resigned. They both knew that Mycroft was lying. Mrs Holmes had never once been worried for Sherlock. As soon as he had turned three, she ignored him completely, leaving him in the hands of his seven-year-old brother.

"Right," Sherlock muttered, standing up from the table and leaving the room. The whispers hushed as he walked by, then started up again, full of raucous laughter and stinging remarks. The family where they don't belong.

Mycroft stood as well, sighing, and followed his brother out. He touched his mother's arm as he left, explaining where he was going and that Sherlock wasn't feeling that well, and that he was going to make sure he's okay.

His mother waved him away with a careless, dismissive hand, continuing to gossip about various members of their family, smiling and laughing, the way she never did with her sons.

Mycroft found Sherlock in the hallway and stopped him with a wrist, tugging his arm back as they passed a boy that neither of them recognized. He was obviously from another family, one of the families that their parents had invited over for the party. Mycroft passed him and learned everything he could from a swift glance. Family of Gryffindors, elder homosexual sister. Same year as Sherlock. Doesn't understand French. Correction, Muggle-born, elder homosexual sister in Gryffindor House. The boy had sandy blonde hair and a short, sturdy stature, with kind eyes and a warm smile.

When Sherlock turned and swore when he saw Mycroft, the boy shrank into the shadows and watched the exchange of the two brothers babbling in French, his dark jacket held tightly between his arms.

"Sherlock, tu ne peux pas quitter la fête," Mycroft snapped at his brother, arms crossed. "Si tu ne mange rien, tu vas finir par tomber malade ou mourir ! Tu ne penses pas que mère sera un peu inquiète à ce moment là ?" _Sherlock, you can't just leave the party. If you don't eat something, you could get sick or die! Don't you think Mummy will be worried, even then?_

Sherlock folded his arms back, stepping up closer to Mycroft, taking relish in the fact that he was as tall as he was. "Ne sois pas idiot, Mycroft. Je veux juste aller à l'école, sortir de cette maison stupide. Toi, mère, et tout le monde dans cette famille me rendez malade, je n'ai pas besoin de ne pas manger pour que cela arrive. Vous êtes tous horribles!" _Don't be an idiot, Mycroft. I just want to go to school, get away from this stupid house. You and mother and everyone else in this family make me sick, I don't need to not eat for that to happen. You're all horrible._

The boy hiding in the shadows shifted uncomfortably. He really only wanted to get back from the party, and away from these arguing brothers. He froze as Sherlock looked over Mycroft's shoulder and tilted his head at him. "Nous sommes surveillés, cher frère," he muttered, and Mycroft turned as well. _We are being watched, dear brother._

"Who are you?" Mycroft asked, slipping seamlessly into English, his arms still crossed.

"Erm," the boy stuttered. "My name's John Watson. Were you just speaking French?" He tugged on the sleeve of his jumper, making Sherlock blink and study him even more carefully. So he was self-conscious.

Sherlock stepped forward and answered as Mycroft looked at him. "Yes, we were. Our grandmother is from France and doesn't understand a bit of English. We had to learn when we visited her a few summers ago." He smirked as Mycroft muttered something about dessert and left as quickly as he could. "Laissez un peu du gâteau pour les autres invités, gras," he called after Mycroft, who made a rude gesture over his shoulder. _Leave some cake for the other guests, fatty._

"You seem very fluent at it, for just learning it a few summers ago," John commented, still tugging at his jumper.

"Yes, well. We had to adapt quickly," Sherlock said, dismissing the compliment. He pointed at John's hand, that was fumbling with the sleeve of the oatmeal-coloured jumper. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Playing with your jumper."

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are."

John looked down at his sleeve and pursed his lips in a sort of pout. "Right. Well. Nervous habit, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded, as if that explained everything, and clasped his hands together behind his back. "Have you already eaten at the party?" he asked politely, knowing that Mummy would be mortified if he didn't use manners on a complete stranger.

"Yeah, and I went to the bathroom and got lost on the way back."

Sherlock ran his hands through his closely cropped brownish hair and sighed. Oh, how the simple people could get lost because their short-term memory didn't do them justice. "Dining hall is down the stairs and to your right." He desperately wanted to take one critical look at this boy and deduce all he could about him, but there was something about John that made him want to give him his privacy.

John smiled at him, a warm, thankful smile. "Thanks. I didn't catch your name…?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you, John. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off for the night." Sherlock winked at the boy and disappeared through a door, leaving John with an empty corridor and a deliberating pout on his lips.

Then John sighed and swore under his breath, following behind the lanky boy curiously while shrugging on his jacket. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock jumped. "I didn't actually expect you to follow me," he said, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Yes, well." John cleared his throat. "There's no point in me going back to the table if I've already eaten, is there?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, his eyebrows drawing together just slightly before relaxing into his normal impassive expression. "I suppose there's not." He continued to walk along, through countless corridors and down countless staircases, John trotting along beside him in comfortable silence.

After a few minutes, John seemed to come to a realization. "Wait, you said you're Sherlock Holmes! Mycroft Holmes' brother!" He looked proud of himself for figuring that out all on his own.

Sherlock scowled. "Good deduction. But I don't live in my brother's shadow, you know. I _am _my own person."

"You're the cleverest boy in school," John said, and the comment made Sherlock pause in his walking and look at John with an amazed look in his eye. So he didn't associate him with Mycroft?

"Yeah," John continued, still walking. Sherlock was trailing after him now, dumbfounded. "My friend, Mike Stamford, he's told me all about you. He says you can figure out things about people from a single glance. He says you can see a Slytherin from the way they stand and a Muggle aeroplane pilot by his left thumb. He says you call it the 'Science of Deduction'. What can you deduce about me?"

Sherlock looked him over, those words being the only permission he needed to indulge himself in John.

"I know your father is a Muggle, who fought in the Afghanistan War. '_How do you know that, Sherlock_?'" he asked mockingly, pretending to be someone else asking the question. He pointed down. "Your shoes, hand-me-down, polished to a shine. They're not your shoes, they're too big, I can hear them clumping just slightly as you walk. Anyone who polishes their shoes to a shine like that are soldiers. Muggle ones at that. You also are wearing a pin that's just barely hidden by your jacket, a Muggle pin for bravery and sacrifice in the war. Father – dead. Obviously.

"Your sister is a Gryffindor, dating a girl named Clara. I know that because I've seen her around school with her girlfriend, wearing a Gryffindor tie, and that's not _cheating _that's _noticing._" He continued to speak, his voice low, gaining speed as he rattled off his deductions.

"She's a year older than you, an alcoholic, by the looks of your sweater, but does a good job of hiding it from your mother. Your mother is a Healer. '_How could you possibly know about the drinking?'_" he predicted, then took a breath. "Your sweater, it's go stains on it and its obviously a hand-me-down from your elder sister, no offense. Stains are clearly both vomit and alcohol, and it still smells faintly of firewhisky. For a moment there, I thought that was your normal smell, but that doesn't make any sense, so process of elimination, your jumper.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, because you got into a car accident with your sister that you were injured in. You're John Watson, sixth year Hufflepuff, and you're only here because you were a) invited here by my family because frankly, they like too many parties and b) you wanted to get out of your house. Your therapist thinks you should move out when you turn seventeen, which is fairly soon, to reduce stress on yourself because its making your limp worse. You don't have a cane, at least not at this party, but you regularly walk with one when you're not at a party. You're too proud for that. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic, backing up the deduction that you were in a car accident most likely, you were raised by a Muggle, with your sister. She was drunk while it happened. _'How could you know about the therapist?'_ You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist."

John stared. He gaped. "That was. Amazing."

The taller boy frowned slightly. "You think so?" he deadpanned.

"Of course," John answered immediately, blushing a bit and rubbing at his face. "It was extraordinary. It was quite…extraordinary."

Sherlock _hmmed_ something. "That's not what people normally say," he muttered as they reached the outside, looking around at the trees to avoid eye contact with John as they walked.

"What do people normally say?" John asked, looking at Sherlock, his eyes curious. It was a beautiful night outside, and all he was concerned about was looking at Sherlock, finding all he could about him.

Sherlock tilted his head so he was nearly looking at John. "Piss off."

John dissolved into giggled, covering his mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry," he apologized. "It's not really that funny."

Sherlock gave a tentative smile to John. "So why are you following me?" he asked, frowning a little bit. Nobody had ever been curious enough to follow him anywhere, never.

"I'm not really sure," John admitted. "I was bored, for one. And you were being all mysterious, with your cheekbones and the turned-up collar of your coat – " He cut himself off, his face flushing a bit. "And you looked like you were up to no good. I didn't realize that this was your place until a few minutes ago."

"You're an interesting boy, John Watson. Maybe I'll see you at Hogwarts."

And John and Sherlock continued to talk for the night, gazing up at the stars and whispering about their lives, their experiences at Hogwarts. John spoke of his sister, his lovely mum, his deceased father. He spoke of his desire to become a Healer, just like his mother, but he wanted to fight like his father. Sherlock spoke of his mother, his father, his brother, all in a detached manner. He spoke of how he was invisible, how he loved Hogwarts, his second home. They were both opening up to a boy they had just met that night. And it was a friendship, almost instantly.

Leaving later on that night, John had waved at Sherlock shyly, who had given him a lazy two-fingered salute. They promised to find each other the next day on the Hogwarts Express, to always talk at Hogwarts. They both knew that they would keep their promises, because each boy was intrigued, their interest piqued.

The only thing that was running through John's mind as he walked home was something Harry had said about her latest girlfriend, Clara.

_"Have you ever met someone so brilliant and fantastic and absolutely surreal that you know straightaway that you can trust them, and you can feel this_ connection_ with them, but you can't explain it really in words? You just _feel _it."_

When John had first heard Clara say that, he had no idea what she was talking about. He was certain he could feel it now, as he thought back on the pale boy with the unruly dark hair and eyes that reminded him of the universe.

And as he walked, he smiled.

* * *

_Hello, this is my first Potterlock fic. Now, I know some people don't like the Sorting of Sherlock into Ravenclaw and John into Hufflepuff, because there's arguments both ways. Originally, I knew I was going to put Sherlock into Ravenclaw so that he was _different_ from his family, because that's what I was going for with Sherlock's character. I put John in Hufflepuff due to his loyalty and how he is always like that with Sherlock. I also wanted Sherlock and John to be in classes together. If Slytherins and Gryffindors are in Double Potions and the like together, it only makes sense for Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws to have the same. _

_Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. The characters belong to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The universe belongs to Queen Rowling._

_Reviews make the romance grow quicker! Also, I'll bake you Ginger Snaps. _


	2. Chapter the Second

**Chapter the Second:** _In which we nearly miss the train, eat sweets, and sulk_

John Watson didn't like being alone and by himself. He liked to be around other people, laughing and talking and generally having a good time. It didn't really matter to him who it was; he was charismatic enough to have a good time with nearly anyone. He was confident too, especially that he'd gone and made the great Sherlock Holmes open up. He'd heard horror stories in school about the genius Ravenclaw. About his callous personality and his tendency to speak or act before he actually thought. According to rumors, last year, Sherlock had hung a Gryffindor upside down over Ravenclaw Tower for teasing him about his family. John found it interesting that Sherlock was so protective of his family, especially since he seemed so desperate to get away from them at the party. He was a strange, strange boy, to be honest. But John didn't mind too much. In fact, he liked his company, and liked the intelligent way he spoke. It was interesting that such a smart boy, however, could know so little about the stars.

John had seen Sherlock just yesterday, in fact. They had been at Diagon Alley together, laughing and getting ice-cream and buying things that they _really_ didn't need. All summer long, the boys had spent almost every day they could with each other. Getting to know each other had been a lot easier than John had predicted. He assumed that being friends with Sherlock was going to be hard, impossible even. But There was something about the way that Sherlock treated him (which, in fact, was a lot better than he treated anyone else) that made John like him a lot more. And he was _very _proud to call Sherlock Holmes his best friend.

Nobody accompanied the small, sandy-haired boy to King's Cross but his sister. Nobody came to see him off at Platform 9 ¾. Nobody kissed him goodbye and nobody waved until the train was out of sight. That was fine with him.

He told himself he was alright with being alone. He was fine with being alone even as Harriet left with Clara, their fingers tightly laced together. _Where was Sherlock? Did he get lost on the way? No, of course not. Maybe he's just running late._

He was fine with being alone as he struggled to get his luggage on board while limping with his cane, feeling the pain twinge in his leg. _I hope that Sherlock's alright. I know he would have helped me. He said he would._

He was fine with being alone when he _click-click-clicked_ down to his compartment, the only empty one available. _The train should be leaving in about five minutes. I hope that he's alright. Maybe he got hurt on his way…_

He tried to tell himself that he was fine with being alone when the last train warning whistled and the boy with the dark hair and impossible eyes still hadn't showed up. _He's coming, I know he is. He promised. He promised me. I trust him. _

The pain in his leg flared as he sat, his back ram-rod straight, his hands clasped in his lap, and his cane resting next to him. He took a deep breath and peered out the window as the final whistle blew and steam hissed from the top of the train. _He's coming, he promised, he's my friend._ And the train chugged forward, and as the parents waved to their children, his heart sank in his chest. _He's not coming. He promised. He's my friend?_

But then there were shouts and students running past his dormitory, and the parents were scattering, and the students were chattering and pointing.

"Oh, hell," John muttered, standing with a gasp of soreness in his leg and grabbing at his cane, limping out into the corridor as the first section of the train went through the tunnel, plunging into darkness. His section was near the back, and the students were crowding, the train slowly moving faster. He squeezed through the mass of students, peering out through the opening they all entered through, and his eyes widened. A tall boy, running alongside the train, was pushing through parents and children to try and get to the opening.

Shouts echoed around John.

"What the hell is he _doing?_"

"Ten Galleons he won't get on before this section goes through the tunnel!"

"Oh my god, someone stop the train!"

"Oh, it's only Holmes again. Let him splat!"

"_Someone help him!" _

"Sherlock, you are the dumbest arse I've ever met in my life, " John called to the boy, stepping forward and dropping his cane to the ground. He crouched, ignoring the pain, and hung out the door with his hand grasped around the railing. He reached out his left hand, his dominant hand, to the boy, who looked up from where he was running and stared at John, a 'what the _hell_ are you _doing_' look on his pale face, flushed slightly from exertion.

"Take my hand!" John shouted as a girl screamed, _"We're going through the tunnel!" _He stretched his hand out further to Sherlock, eyes pleading. "Hurry, Sherlock!"

Sherlock lunged and his long fingers wrapped around John's wrist as John's wrapped around his. John tugged, muscles straining but not complaining yet, and Sherlock moved just a bit faster and jumped, his other hand flashing out to grab for the other railing. There was a shrill scream as their section of the train plunged into darkness, and John tumbled, a weight he didn't recognise falling on top of him. Sherlock was struggling to stand, apologizing to John, his breathing heavy and his body heat making John pleasantly warm. It was pitch black, dark enough for John not able to see two feet in front of him, but as he reached out, he felt a hand brush his. He took it and the hand pulled him up, handing him his cane.

"Thank you," Sherlock said in a voice soft by labored breathing. John couldn't see him, but he could hear him. He was awfully close-sounding, he must not be more than an arm's length away from him.

John grinned in the darkness and pulled his wand out from his back pocket. "You're welcome," he replied, tapping his wand against his leg and muttering _Lumos_. He looked up and met Sherlock's gaze in the wand light. Impossible eyes looked back at him, and suddenly John felt very ordinary.

"How would you describe me, John? After that escapade? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" Sherlock asked John grinning at him as the train chugged through the tunnel and out into the bright lights of the morning again.

"Late," John responded as the crowd of people, disappointed that they wouldn't get more drama than this, dissipated. There were shouts and laughter as they returned to their compartments, sounds that John associated with a new year at Hogwarts, and a good time at that. He was sure this year was going to be interesting, interesting indeed. No less interesting than it was last year, seeing as now he was friends with this Sherlock Holmes.

"How was the party after I left?" John asked as they roamed the train, his cane held tightly in his hand, clicking on the ground. Sherlock was walking gracefully beside him, reminding him of a cat, his impossible eyes observing everything and anyone they passed. John knew he was mentally filing everything into his head, deleting what was necessary. He remembered their conversation from the night before as they walked, smiling to himself softly.

* * *

_John frowned for a minute in concentration as he used the cane that Sherlock had Summoned from the estate to keep his balance as he sat down on the slightly damp grass, grunting a bit in pain as his leg twinged. He laid back, his arms folded behind his head in a comfortable-looking position, his eyes focused on the stars. "You're an interesting person, Holmes," he mused._

"_Hm," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I've heard that quite a lot. But I suppose that's the nicest version I've heard in recent times." He lingered next to John, watching him lie back on the grass, then sat next to him, lying back, as he figured it'd be odd if he continued to stand. Their arms were brushing, just the slightest bit, as John shifted. (Did he notice he was coming closer?) "However, you are interesting as well, Watson."_

_John's eyes were still on the stars as Sherlock looked over to him, his eyes silver in the moonlight. When he noticed that John wasn't looking back, he attempted to engross himself in the stars again, but found himself astoundingly distracted by the boy who was laying next to him, taking soft, even breaths. His eyes flickered back to John once, twice, before he gave up. His eyes drifted up and down twice over John's remote figure, watching how his stomach rose and fell with each breath he took, how his profile looked. Interesting, indeed. _

"_I'm not really that interesting," John shrugged, his eyes falling from the stars back to Sherlock, surprised that the boy was already looking at him. "I mean, I live in a normal house with a less-than-normal family. I want to be a Healer when I get older. I have a limp. It hurts like hell right now. Not much to learn there."_

_The taller boy chuckled, looking back up at the pinpricks of light that were thousands of light years away, wondering what the joy in stargazing was. "Not much to learn? On the contrary, John Watson, you are the most interesting boy I've met so far."_

"_Really?"_

"_Oh yes."_

"_What do you mean by that?"_

"_I mean that there is no other person in my entire lifetime that I have waited for permission to deduce. I decided to give you privacy, to not deduce you. I figured that it would be socially incorrect to just go in your business like that. You're the only person I've had the premeditation to do that for. And I don't even know why I did it. It's out of character for me to be polite like that. And nobody has ever wanted to find out more about me." Sherlock surprised himself with his honesty, the tendency to tell the truth and be cordial and kind and the exact __opposite__ of what he normally acted like for this boy. Was he trying to impress him? Was he trying to make a friend? It was fine, after all, even if John didn't want to be friends. He could easily avoid him at Hogwarts to avoid the embarrassment. He knew every nook and cranny in Hogwarts. Avoiding John would not be a problem at all. _

_The sandy haired boy looked surprised. "Are you really as terrible as everyone says?"_

_A smirk from Sherlock. "Even worse."_

"_What do you mean that nobody has ever wanted to find out more about you? I want to find out more about you. Am I nobody?" John was curious now, interested, his thirst for knowledge about this mysterious Sherlock Holmes piqued. _

_Sherlock looked taken aback. "Of course you're not nobody. You're the only one who has ever followed me to find out what I'm doing, who I am. Nobody does that. For a lot of reasons, I'm assured. I'm rude, intelligent, I lack social graces. I interrupt people while they're talking to tell them that they're wrong and to insult them. I'm a high functioning sociopath; I have no concept of emotions. They cloud the mind, ensnare your senses, and I prefer to work alone anyway. Alone is perfect for me."_

_John smiled at him. "And that's exactly why I want to be friends with you, Sherlock Holmes. You're the exact opposite of anyone I have ever known. You have no friends because you won't accept them. You're the strange, mysterious boy that roams the corridors at night, the one that everyone wants to get to know but they never do because he pushes them away. You're the Ice King, Sherlock, right down to the color of your eyes. The boy who makes everyone else seem unintelligent in comparison, who makes everyone else feel small. You've got to do that for a reason."_

"_I think you'll find," Sherlock responded curtly, "that the 'Ice King' is not the nickname that the students in school have come up with for me. That is my __brother's__ nickname, created by the Slytherins that go by the names of Irene Adler and James Moriarty. Both a year younger than I am, but all the same. Have you not noticed the names that students come up with that they think are behind everyone's back. They're usually incredibly apt and interesting."_

"_What's your nickname then? If your brother is the Ice King, what are you?"_

_Well, that was certainly unexpected. Was John really this curious to find out who he was? Strange indeed, that a boy (a cripple from Hufflepuff, at that) was so outwardly keen about a boy who was the complete opposite of him, in personality and looks. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "The Virgin," he said, as if it didn't bother him. But John was good at body language, and could see his muscles in his shoulders and stomach tense up, as if it bothered him quite a lot more than he was letting on. "They say I'm intelligent, a genius. But if my brother is the Ice King, a man with no emotions because he refuses to let himself feel them, no mercy, no life in his eyes at all, then I am the Virgin. I am the boy who is so smart, but emotions and feelings go over his head, who is so terribly innocent and confused about love and life and all that caring lark that he seems even colder in comparison. Naive. But no. It's the _Virgin,_" he spat out angrily. _

"_Do you care about what they say?"_

"_Does caring help my situation? No. Caring is not an advantage, John. And I don't intend it to be one."_

_John smiled. "Then let's not care together. You're brilliant."_

_Sherlock gave John a small half-smile, turning up the corners of his mouth. "Shall we go back inside and face the party, the gossip-mongers, and the idiots?" he asked, standing up and holding out a hand for John to take._

_The smaller boy reached up and took the pale hand outstretched to him, picking up his cane, and they walked back to the estate. They walked close, sharing secret smiles and secrets, with their arms brushing every so often. Back in the dining hall, there were double the whispers, because suddenly Sherlock was accompanied by someone who didn't look sullen and unlucky at his situation. There was Sherlock Holmes, the pure blooded oddity, laughing and whispering and bantering with John Watson, the Mudblood from down the road. Interesting, indeed._

* * *

"Dull, of course," Sherlock responded as they got into the compartment. "You weren't there to shout at my cousin again for teasing me. I appreciated that, you know."

"Of course," John grinned. "You don't stand up for yourself very often, do you?"

"Why should I? I've got you now. We stand up for each other, isn't that the point of having friends?"

"I suppose it is."

Sherlock laughed, and John laughed along with him. They sat for a while, chatting and generally having a good time. The sweets woman wheeled her trolley past the compartment, and Sherlock jumped up and chased her halfway down the train to buy sweets for both him and John. John looked up from his book when Sherlock came back, not even asking where he went. His face brightened considerably, however, when Sherlock came back into the compartment, arms loaded with Chocolate Frogs, Fizzing Whizbees, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and a variety of other things that were sure to give them cavities by the end of the train ride.

"You got sweets," John said, surprised.

Sherlock frowned and pooled the armful on the space on the chair between them, looking up at John. "Well, yes. Why do you sound so surprised?" he asked, popping an Every Flavor Bean into his mouth, chewing and watching John with those damned impossible eyes.

"Well," John said, unwrapping a Chocolate Frog and taking out the card (Morgana, _again)_ "I was under the impression that you never ate." He bit the head off the frog, watching Sherlock with dark blue eyes. How ordinary he felt, next to this extraordinary boy.

The Ravenclaw looked offended at this. "Of course I _eat_, John. I don't know why everyone is so concerned about how much I eat, I eat just enough to keep me alive. Isn't that what really counts?"

"Enough to keep you alive isn't nearly enough to keep yourself satisfied. Or healthy."

"Eating slows my thinking down."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes."

"No."

"You don't know how my mind works," Sherlock said defensively, popping another jelly bean into his mouth. "You're being absolutely ridiculous."

John rolled his eyes. "_You're_ being absolutely ridiculous, Sherlock," he said, scooping a handful of candy into his hands and plopped himself directly next to Sherlock, candy returning to his lap. His arm brushed Sherlock's. Sherlock shivered. "You could get sick if you don't eat properly. What, do you have a sweet tooth?"

Sherlock was silent, glaring steadfastly out the window.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock jutted his chin out and continued to glare.

"Oh god, don't be like that."

Sherlock glared hard enough to make it seem like the window had personally offended him in one way or another.

"You're being moody."

Sherlock turned further, so he was facing the window completely.

John sighed to himself and brushed the candy out of his lap, curling into himself. If Sherlock wasn't going to talk, he might as well take a nap if he had nobody to talk to. He rested his head in his arms, his legs curled to his chest, and closed his eyes. He slowly drifted off, vaguely aware of what was going around in his surroundings.

Sherlock turned when John stopped talking, tilting his head at him. Was he falling asleep? Why was he sleeping? He was _supposed_ to continue to argue with Sherlock. It was no fun if he had nobody to talk to. He frowned at the boy, waving his hand in front of his face. "John?" he asked softly. John didn't stir, just gave a small snore.

The dark-haired boy smirked to himself and watched John now, feeling free to do so now that the Hufflepuff was asleep. He noted that John had short, little blond eyelashes, and his eyes flitted back and forth under his lids, deep in REM sleep. His clothes looked rumpled, his face was smooth and free of the permanent mask of slight sadness that always kept the corners of his mouth down a bit and a small furrow in his brows appear. Sherlock smiled to himself as John's lips moved, mumbling a bit in his sleep. He rested his head against the window, situated so he could see John next to him but still rest his head comfortably.

After about ten minutes of switching between looking out the window and looking at John, Sherlock felt a weight on his side that was distinctly the size and smell of John Watson. He looked at the boy out of the corner of his eyes, his nose brushing against sandy-blonde strands of hair. John snored slightly, his cheek nuzzling into Sherlock's shoulder and a small smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock didn't exactly know what to do, so he let it happen. He closed his eyes, following John's lead, and was soon fast asleep. As the train weaved through England, on its way to Hogwarts, Sherlock and John unconsciously shifted bit by bit in their sleep until John was curled to Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock's arms were around him.

Interesting year, indeed.

* * *

_I just want to say since the story kind of got away from me at the end, that I changed the time from the party in the first chapter to the second chapter. It's been a month since Sherlock and John met at the party. It wouldn't make any sense for two boys who had met each other the night before to be comfortable enough with one another to start cudding (even if it IS in their sleep). Apologies for any confusion._

_Review if convenient. If inconvenient, review all the same. _

_Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock characters belong to Mofftiss, and the Potterverse belongs to Queen Rowling. _


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